Posts Tagged ‘Lincoln Memorial’

ROMANCE! (Part 1 of 7)

.......what the WHAT?

WEATHER: Take a guess.

MILES: 10.


WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Mall, Lincoln Memorial, home

MOOD: Sensual.


I’ve realized that I’ve been an absolute hellbitch lately, mostly due to just about the worst week at work ever last week (“Who taught me how to write?  Drunk baboons?”), combined with a tiring running weekend (“I will PEE ON EVERY NON-WORKING WATER FOUNTAIN I FIND, I SWEAR TO GOD, WASHINGTON, DC!”), which has made me less than pleasant to live with (“Bring me the head of whatever ass-hat loaded this dishwasher!”).

Life is taxing sometimes, dear readers.  Sometimes it’s all too much.  Sometimes life voms on your shoes and steals your lollipop.  Sometimes you need an escape.  Sometimes you want to light some candles and get down with your bad self in a bubble bath with a box of Godiva and a glass of Cabernet and an Enya CD while breathing winsomely, “Calgon, take me AWAY!”

Sometimes, girlfriend, you need romance.

And so I am here to deliver you from your hellish daily life with a romantic story, delivered to you in serial format…partially in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for more running-log goodness, and partially…no, actually, mostly in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for the goods.

Tonight, I bring you part 1 of 7.  Why seven?  Well, I’ve always found seven to be the most sensual of the single-digit integers.

So, without further ado, I bring you:


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Waxing Poetic


WEATHER: Chilly (45?) and dark.

WHERE TO: Lincoln Memorial, around Tidal Basin, to Capitol, home.

MOOD: Fantastic.


One of my favorite things about running is how it lets me get to know whatever place in which I’m living.  Especially not-having a car here in DC, I scope out most of my new places/neighborhoods for the first time at about 8 miles per hour in the wee hours of the morning.  During my knee convalescence, I started to have this very strange feeling of not being a DC resident anymore, purely because it had just been so long since I had seen the Mall or Georgetown or the Cathedral.  So it was especially gratifying this morning to extend my run all the way around the Tidal Basin, where I had not trekked in ages.  Gawwwwd, it was awesome.  In case you hadn’t gathered from my most recent posts, let me say it explicitly: I’m sleep-deprived, stressed, working, going to grad school, and juggling my usual man-harem…

…and still KICK-ASS.  Being able to run again?  Yeah.  Improves the quality of life by a factor of a bajillion.  If life without a morning spin around town is eating your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich over a hurried half-hour lunch break on a small patch of barely-dry, balding grass in the middle of Farragut Square, life WITH a morning jog is like eating an industrial-sized barrel of grandma’s thanksgiving stuffing on 50 hectares of cow-munched meadow in the golden northern Italy sunshine.

Stop cocking your head and looking quizzical.  You feel me.

Well, gosh.  I had another idea for a post today, but it can wait.  Because now I’m feeling all poetic and writerly, especially since I’m sitting in the neighborhood indie coffee shop, where you just KNOW the next Jonathan Franzen or David Sedaris or <insert name of other vastly overrated author here> wannabe lurks behind his Macbook.

And so I give you a poem, written on the fly, about the beauty and joy and poignance and ennui and joie de vivre and je ne sais quoi and gateau de poisson that together comprise my inner life.

Also, I’m fucking sick of looking at my thesis.


Ode to the fellow who just walked in wearing a suit oh my God

I wanna get weird with you, baby,

And then do it again.

It’s March twenty-third

Two thousand and ten.


You’re scrumptious as hell

I’m trying not to stare

Oh shit you just saw me

Now I’ll just look over there.


Dude, I’m not a stalker,

I just think you’re fly.

Let me touch your face

And tell you just why.


You reading the Times

Makes me crazy, you know.

And your gray suit and pink tie

Are smokin’ like whoa.


So come back to my place

Take off those itchy pants,

And open my…Holy shit.  Are you LAUGHING at something Thomas Friedman wrote?  Laughing appreciatively?  Really?

Fuck.  Nevermind.


Send your Pulitzer nominations here.

You’re welcome.